


Silver

by calydon



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, peter is a furnace, smut city, that's where i live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 16:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10666650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calydon/pseuds/calydon
Summary: Every night, he’s curled up against her back with his arm around her waist in a bunk made for one.





	Silver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [interabang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/interabang/gifts).



> Ye olde "we have to fuck quietly or we'll wake the others" trope.

Sometimes, it’s the little things that remind her of how much her life has changed in a year. She gets one of Peter’s songs stuck in her head and taps her foot to the rhythm of it as she cleans her blades. There are other people’s things _everywhere_ , and habits to take into account. (She’s learned the importance of beating Drax to the bathroom.) Some mornings, she sleeps in.

Other times, it’s bigger things — like the fact that she has no space of her own, and how sometimes, when they’ve been holed up together on the ship for too long, she feels like she might just up and leave. Or the fact that, when a nightmare wakes her up in the middle of the night these days, Peter is right there next to her.

It’s still new, this thing they have. She feels like they’re still amateurs. It’s almost comforting, then, that some things haven’t changed. He still drives her crazy sometimes and she still feels like there are parts of him that she’ll never understand, but they have a rapport now. They keep the intimacy behind closed doors — not secret, but private, protected. And they work together just like they used to.

For this job, they’re teamed up with the Ravagers, stowed away in a shared cabin on Yondu’s ship at night. It’s dark, the air is stale and there are more of them than there are bunks. All of which would have been fine with her if it weren’t for the fact that it’s been two weeks now. Two weeks of changing in a closet, tripping all over each other and listening to Rocket’s bizarre sleep rants. Most notably, two weeks of sharing a bed with Peter in celibacy.

Every night, he’s curled up against her back with his arm around her waist in a bunk made for one. It feels good to have him close to her, but she’s becoming more and more restless. Even during the day, she catches herself losing her focus. She thinks about being naked in his bed, having him all to herself, feeling him come inside her. All the things they’ll do together when they’re alone, gnawing at the back of her mind. It’s getting out of hand.

She can tell he feels it too. His touches linger — a hand on the small of her back, or running through her hair at the end of the day. The other morning, when they’d just woken up, he looked at her like he wanted to eat her up.

And here she is again, in their bunk, trying and failing to fall asleep with his breaths puffing against the back of her neck. They were too tired to even think when they fell into bed still mostly clothed, but it’s the early morning hours now, and the itch is making itself known. Rocket is snoring in his corner and she can make out Drax sleeping in the bunk opposite theirs. 

Peter’s hand is resting against her abdomen and their fingers play around with each other, interlacing loosely, her thumb running across his knuckles. She lies there listening to his breath, acutely aware of all the places where their bodies are touching. He brushes his nose against the back of her neck and moves closer, nuzzling the skin behind her ear. It feels nice. She shifts back against him, and he slips his other arm under her, wrapping it around her waist.

He untangles his fingers from hers and slides his hand down her stomach to the waistband of her skirt, toying with it for a moment. His fingertips slip underneath, warm against her bare skin, and he kisses her neck. She can feel her skin prickle when he grazes the edge of her panties. She shifts her legs, opening up in invitation, his hand wanders further down, and a shiver runs up her spine when he strokes her through the fabric with two fingers. 

After a while he slides his hand inside, and it’s a sweet bolt of pleasure when his thumb brushes against her. He slips a finger inside her, then another one, withdrawing and then going back in, slow and deep and thorough. A thrilling, pulsating sensation builds between her legs with every measured movement of his hand, fingers brushing against the soft skin at her inner thighs. His other hand goes to her breast, feeling her through her top, and she arches into his hand, yearning for more. She reaches back to grab at his arm, his shoulder, any part of him that she can touch, and pushes back against his hips, hearing his breath hitch.

He twists his fingers and she gasps, and then he goes almost all the way out, working there in small movements, his thumb moving against her, and it’s perfect, just right, making her pant into the pillow.

His breath is hot, washing over her neck, and he’s cupping her breast more firmly now; his palm is pressed against her between her legs and he grinds against her; she can feel how hard he is. He’s everywhere, all around her, warming her to the bone, and it feels amazing. It feels safe. 

She meets his movements and he stifles a groan against the back of her neck, still moving his hips, and a dizzy, drunken feeling clouds her mind.

”Wait,” she chokes out, suddenly. She almost slaps her hand over her mouth.

He goes still and loosens his hold on her. She listens for signs of activity, but hears nothing. The room is quiet except for their breathing.

She wants to touch him, see him, have all of him. She gingerly turns over to face him, runs her hand up his arm and takes a moment to look at him. Even in the dim lighting, he looks flushed.

They maneuvre him onto his back with some difficulty and she gets up to straddle him. She rests her weight on his groin, and his hands slide up her thighs. When she rolls her hips, she can see his throat swallow.

She moves back a little and fumbles with his pants, unbuckling and unzipping enough to reach inside and wrap her hand around him, and he lets his head fall back against the pillow. He grasps at her thighs, meeting her eyes as she softly runs her fingers back and forth and then gives a few slow, steady strokes. She comes to a stop at the base, varying the pressure there, making him bite back a moan. She withdraws her hand, and then they’re both pulling his pants down further. He tugs impatiently at her panties and she slides them off one leg.

She aligns herself with him, braces her hands on his chest and slowly lowers herself onto him, all the way, bunching up the fabric of his shirt in her hands, feeling him shiver. They stay that way for a moment, and she revels in the feeling of him inside her and his hands on her hips.

She leans in close, trying to make them invisible, to keep him hers and nobody else’s. It limits her movements when she begins to ride him, but she likes it. She’s close enough that she can see the specks of green in his eyes. His hand goes to the small of her back and slips under her top to press against her spine. She holds onto his shoulders as she sinks down and he fills her, again and again, and it’s better every time. She feels his body between her thighs, his chest underneath her forearms and oh _,_ _yes,_ this is what she’s been missing. He feels so good. She clenches around him and he huffs out a ragged breath; a sob catches in her throat and she closes her eyes, pausing for a second, trying to make this last. When she opens them again, he’s watching her closely. She loves the way he looks when he’s this far gone: his hair disheveled, eyes bright, giving her everything, hiding nothing from her. It gets her every time. She leans in for a kiss, messy but tender, and rocks against him again, and it’s careful and quiet and absolutely fantastic.

There are far too many layers between them. She wants all their clothes gone, to touch him and kiss him without limitations, feel his hands and mouth all over her. She reaches under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin and the raised line of one of his scars. Her hair falls onto his chest and he reaches up and tucks it behind her ear. 

Both of his hands go to her hips and he meets her movements. Almost without realizing it, she goes just a little faster, approaching her peak, and then it washes over her, and she tries to be quiet but she can’t hold in the pants that escape her in rhythm with her movements. She buries her face in his neck, trying to stifle them, and his hands tighten on her hips as he comes apart too. She can feel the breaths in his throat and his chest rising and falling against hers. A tingling pleasure courses through her, fainter and fainter, and a second, smaller wave hits her, making her toes curl. 

They lie there for a while as they catch their breaths and he rubs his hands up and down her sides. She feels her heartbeat begin to slow down and breathes him in. She wants to wrap herself around him and fall asleep that way. 

When she comes up from the crook of his neck, he’s mussed and spent, still a little out of breath. He tugs at her skirt, pulling it down to cover her. 

She looks at him: strange, reckless, kind Peter who feels like home, and he gives her a faint smile that makes her heart hum. She’s brimming with something that aches to be let out, and she thinks she might whisper it, but she can’t quite form the words. She brings a hand up to his neck and presses kisses to his temple, his brow, his cheek. They kiss, then, a real kiss, soft and simple. He brushes the side of his nose against hers when they break it. 

After a little while, their position starts to become uncomfortable and she slides off of him. They rearrange themselves quietly and he pulls the blanket over them, settling in behind her and smoothing out the fabric of her top. She lies there basking in his attention and the glow of contentment, and just before she falls asleep, she glances across the room at Drax in the other bunk. His back is turned against them. She chooses to believe those are the deep, slow breaths of sleep, and if she’s wrong, he makes no mention of it the next day.


End file.
